


here i am leaving you clues

by ceserabeau



Series: Avengers AU [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marvel Avengers Fusion, F/M, M/M, Multi, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his life Scott has kissed exactly two girls: Mary Jenkins when he was twelve in the schoolyard, and Kira Yukimura when he was twenty-three under the cover of an Italian night. Scott has never kissed a boy, so when Isaac slots a careful hand around his face and leans in, he’s too shocked to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's _[Snow and Dirty Rain](http://kathleenjoy.tumblr.com/post/16434266627/snow-and-dirty-rain-richard-siken)_.

Early morning, and Scott’s on the subway. There’s a woman with a briefcase sitting opposite him who reminds him of a man he once saw get punched by a woman he loved: the same sharp cheekbones, the same blue eyes.

At Union Square, the doors slide open and two boys step on, wrapped up in coats and scarves to stave off the morning chill. They’re teenagers, laughing and giggling as they clutch onto each other as the train judders out of the station. Scott watches them with a smile, remembering when he and Stiles used to get the train into Manhattan to stare at the Empire State Building on a sunny afternoon.

He gets lost in thought until the train jolts again, sending the boys stumbling down the carriage on shaky legs. They pause in front of him, clinging to the railings, and one of them leans in to press his lips to the other.

Scott freezes, watching the way their mouths move against each other, slick and open. One of them reaches up to touch the other’s cheek, a gentle gesture: a caress. When they pull apart, they smile at each other, all warmth. It shakes him to his core.

Way back when, he always used to go with the girls that Stiles brought around: blonde girls, brunettes, redheads; skinny girls, curvy girls, whoever Stiles thought would be fun. There were never guys; he’s been called enough names, taken enough beatings to know that it’s not normal, not accepted.

But when he glances around at the rest of the carriage nobody seems to be looking in their direction. Above him, the boys lean in again, and Scott has to look away, fear lancing through him. He catches the eye of the woman with her briefcase but she rolls her eyes, mouths _kids_ at him.

He glances up at the boys; they’re oblivious to him, to everyone, so wrapped up in each other that they are blind to everything around them.  Scott feels sick, something like shame, like guilt roiling in the pit of his stomach. Everything he’s seeing before him is disgraceful, disgusting, words hissed by others when he was caught looking, but no one seems to be batting an eyelid.

He mulls it over as the train rumbles through the tunnels. When he went to sleep, the world was a very different place: those boys would be bloody and bruised by now. But that was seventy years ago and now no one seems to care. People keep telling him the world has changed and they might be right, but Scott has seen men try to destroy the world in the name of their own greed and selfishness in this decade and the last so he’s not so sure.

He’s still feeling troubled twenty minutes later when he steps through the doors at SHIELD headquarters. There are people everywhere, scurrying about, their arms stacked high with folders overflowing with paperwork, and Scott feels lost amongst them as they push past, oblivious.

“Captain,” a voice calls out.

Scott turns to see his handler walking towards him: tall, athletic Agent Lahey, with his big eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on. He’s had his hair cut, those curls Scott remembers seeing when he first woke up gone, and it suits him, highlights the angular planes of his face. He smiles as he reaches Scott, youthful and joyous, like seeing him is the highlight of his day.

“Everything okay?” he asks, reaching out a hand for Scott to shake.

Scott blinks at him. “I think so,” he says slowly, and Lahey laughs.

“See something weird on the subway?” he guesses and Scott holds back the flinch.

“Something like that.” Scott pauses to scrub a hand through his hair. “Sir, do you ever get the feeling you’re missing something?”

Lahey chuckles. “All the time. Especially around here.” He pats Scott’s arm gently. “Don’t worry about it; I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Scott nods uncertainly, but he’s not so sure. Lahey just smiles again.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing down the corridor; “We’re going to be late.”

He turns on his heel and Scott watches, thoughtful, at the sight of him striding away, the long lines of his legs evident in those very well-fitted pants. There’s something about the way he moves that makes something stir under his skin.

It’s as if Lahey knows what he’s thinking because he turns slowly, drawls, “ _Captain_ ,” in a tone that makes Scott jerk his eyes up from his crotch, “I thought I told you to call me Isaac.”

And he winks.

 

-

 

It’s four a.m., the sun not even a glow on the horizon, and Allison is sitting in Isaac’s office with her sleeves rolled up, Isaac standing before her with a bunch of needles carefully lined up on his desk.

“Hold still,” he says, grabbing her shoulder as he sticks the first one in.

Allison yawns at him. In an hour’s time she’ll be on a jet heading to Cape Town and almost all of her vaccinations are dangerously out of date. She glances down at the labels of the syringes: tuberculosis, malaria, rabies, dengue fever, cholera.

“Cholera? Is that even a thing any more?” Isaac stabs her hard and Allison flinches away. “That hurt, asshole.”

“Sorry,” he says, but she can tells from the way the corners of his mouth are twitching that he’s not, at all. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Allison huffs, rubbing at her arm when he pulls the needle out. “Whatever,” she says, then nudges Isaac with the toe of her boot. “So how was your meeting with Captain America? Word is he’s dreamy.” Isaac doesn’t answer, too focused on loading a needle to stick into her. “Isaac, _tell me_.”

“Tell you what?” he asks, avoiding her gaze. “The meeting was fine. He’s onboard with the Avengers Initiative. You may end up working with him soon.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “That’s great and all, but what’s he like?”

Isaac fixes her with his best interrogation look. “Why all the questions?” Allison shrugs and he sighs. “He’s nice, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, you know.” It’s Isaac’s turn to shrug, nonchalant. “I mean, he’s Captain America.”

Allison smiles at him; Isaac’s crush is anything but subtle, no matter how hard he tries. “Did you get him to sign your cards yet?” Isaac looks away sharply, a blush rising in his cheeks, and it makes Allison frown as she sees him retreating into his shell. “Don’t be like that; I’m just teasing.”

“Well, don’t,” he snaps, forcing Allison to grab him before he turns away.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says, tugging until he slowly moves to fit between her legs, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck. “I know how big a deal this is for you.”

Isaac sighs, leaning in to brush their noses together. “Sorry,” he mutters against her mouth. “I know it’s stupid. I just never thought I’d get to meet him in the flesh.”

Allison presses their lips together once, twice, three times. “I know.” She smiles at him softly. “You know, if you wanted – I wouldn’t mind.”

She doesn’t have to say it out loud, because Isaac gets it, like he always does. “I – you – _really_?” He pulls back to look at her, brows furrowed, eyes confused. “Are you being serious? You’d let me?”

“If you want to,” Allison tells him. “If it would make you happy.”

Isaac smiles down at her. “You make me happy,” he says earnestly.

Allison laughs, presses her smile to his. “Obviously,” she says, because if there’s one thing she knows, it’s that Isaac loves her more than anything in the world, even more than his vintage Captain America trading cards. “But if you wanted to act on your crush and get it on with Captain Hotstuff, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind. I might want to know the dirty details, but I certainly wouldn’t _mind_.”

Isaac’s looking at her like she’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. “You’re incredible,” he tells her, and it makes Allison’s heart skip a beat in her chest.

“I know.” Allison releases him and reaches over to pick up the next syringe. “Now, come on; let’s get this over with. I’ve got some aliens to shoot.”

 

-

 

Ever since he was a child, Isaac has been fascinated by Captain America. His mother would buy him comics and he’d sit up late at night, reading under his sheets by the light of a flickering torch. It was those stories of heroes and villains, of magic and monsters that led him to SHIELD, so when Scott McCall shakes his hand in a dingy conference room, it’s just as life affirming as Allison jokes about.

A crush, Allison calls it, hero worship; but there’s more to it than that. Scott is funny and smart, he’s handsome and brave; he’s everything a hero should be. Isaac is well aware how ridiculous he sounds – Allison certainly teases him for it enough – but there’s something about Scott McCall that makes Isaac’s heart beat a little faster.

He knows he’s not being subtle about it, not when Allison nudges his side and says teasingly, “Cap’s looking good today.”

“Stop it,” he hisses at her. “He’s not interested.”

Scott is definitely not interested. It’s obvious in the shy way he smiles at Lydia across the briefing table, at Cora Hale when she swans her way into the building. And then there are the files on Agent Yukimura, the great romance that never was. There is no mention of men anywhere, and SHIELD’s research is thorough.

But Allison simply rolls her eyes at him, says, “Just look, Isaac, just watch.”  

So he does. And when he starts to see the way Scott’s eyes linger on him: on his hands, on his mouth, he thinks that maybe, just maybe he can do what Allison told him to do.

 

-

 

In his life Scott has kissed exactly two girls: Mary Jenkins when he was twelve in the schoolyard, and Kira Yukimura when he was twenty-three under the cover of an Italian night. Scott has never kissed a boy, so when Isaac slots a careful hand around his face and leans in, he’s too shocked to move.

Isaac licks at the seam of his lips and Scott opens his mouth without thinking, letting Isaac’s tongue sweeps in. He tastes like coffee and mint from the gum he’s been chewing all afternoon, and under that like something uniquely Isaac that makes Scott moan a little when Isaac’s teeth dig into his lip.

It takes a long moment for Scott to realise what he’s doing, and tension shoots through him suddenly. He has to pull back; Isaac chases his lips and Scott has to physically stop himself from jerking away. 

“Is this – is this not okay?” Isaac asks, leaning back until he can look at Scott’s face.

Scott doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Isaac, at where his pupils are blown wide, the curve of his mouth slick with saliva. There’s something twisting low in his gut: an unfamiliar desire, and that same old shame; and combined they make panic spark along his skin.

Isaac strokes a thumb along the line of his cheekbone, asks, “What’s wrong?” and Scott finally pushes himself to his feet.

“I should go,” he says, and tries not to look at the flush in Isaac’s cheeks or the way his pants are tented as he rushes for the door.

 

-

 

Scott doesn’t see Isaac for four days. He’s not avoiding him per se, but having to go to Columbia to deal with human traffickers is a good excuse to not see or speak to him.

But when he gets back to SHIELD, after he’s been debriefed and checked over by medical, after he’s had a hot shower and written up his mission report, there’s really no more avoiding. Isaac is his handler and the report has to be turned in to him personally, so Scott steels himself and goes to his office, praying that he can slip it under the door and be done with it.

But of course, because the world isn’t on his side, Isaac calls out when he knocks and Scott reluctantly pushes the door open.

Inside the dim office, Isaac is at his desk, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to show off the curve of his forearms. His face is illuminated by the lamp, face cast in shadows, gold highlighting the sharp line of his cheekbones. The subtle movement of muscle under fabric as he sits up and stretches makes Scott’s mouth go suddenly dry.

“Captain,” Isaac says carefully, and Scott drags his attention away from the smudge of ink high up on his cheek. “What can I help you with?”

“I, uh.” Scott holds out the report. “This is for you.”

Isaac smiles, beckons him forward. “Thanks for being so quick. I wish the others were like that.”

Scott gives him a quick smile as he hands over the folder. “Let me know if you have any questions,” he says, then makes a beeline for the door.

Isaac’s voice stops him when he has his hand on the handle. “Scott,” he says, and from his tone Scott can tell exactly what’s coming next; “About the other day.”

Scott turns to see the way Isaac’s blushing, cheeks and ears an embarrassed pink. “Nothing to talk about,” he gets out. “Don’t worry about it.”

Isaac holds up a hand. “I just – I want to apologise. I thought we were on the same page.”

Scott shakes his head. “I’m not – I’m straight,” he says, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. “And I thought you and Argent were – _you know_.”

Isaac sighs, shrugs a little. “It’s complicated,” he says, like that makes sense.

Scott nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I get it,” even though he really, _really_ doesn’t. “I’ve got to go. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Isaac says. “And look, I really am sorry about what happened.” Scott nods his understanding, and gets a weak smile in return. “Great,” he says finally; “Have a good night.”

“Yeah,” Scott gets out, “Good night,” but Isaac’s already looking back down at his paperwork.

Scott watches him for a long minute: Isaac reaches up to rub at his brow, mouth moving slowly as he carefully reads the first page of Scott’s report. It’s part distracting, part endearing, and it makes Scott want to trace the curve of his lower lip with his fingers.

In the end though, Scott forces himself to turn and leave. When he gets back to his room, he turns the shower on and cranks the dial to freezing, steps in fully clothes to stick his head under the spray.

It does nothing to cool the heat deep in his gut.

 

-

 

“So, did you ask him yet?” Allison asks.

Isaac doesn’t bother looking up from the paperwork in front of him. He’s got three reports open in front of him: Allison’s, Lydia’s and whichever rookie agent they took on their trip to Singapore to fight a sea monster. Both Allison’s and Lydia’s are nearly identical, but the third is entirely different. Isaac wonders if maybe they tied him up and left him in the hotel.

“Isaac,” Allison whines, “Answer me.”

Isaac scribbles out Allison’s misspelling of _Pulau Kapalajernih_. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he tells her.

Allison sighs loudly. “You know what I’m talking about. Did you _ask_ him?”

Isaac pretends like he can’t hear the emphasis she’s putting on her words, and carefully turns the page of his report. “Do you mean, did I ask Derek Hale if he wants to join the Avengers Initiative? Yes, I did. He says he’s in, but I don’t know if he’s going to be reliable.”

Allison growls at him, reaching over to slam her hands down on the reports. “Stop it,” she commands. “Did you ask Captain America if he wants to have sex with you or not?”

Isaac grits his teeth, tries to pull the folders out from under her. “You stop it,” he says, trying not to cringe at how petulant he sounds. “I’m trying to work. And don’t talk about that _here_ – the walls have ears.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “You didn’t do it, did you? You chickened out.”

“I didn’t chicken out,” Isaac spits back, then clamps his mouth shut when he realises what he’s said. Sure enough, when he looks up, Allison is watching him with an interested expression.

“So you did ask him?” she asks, eyes bright. “What did he say?”

“I didn’t ask him,” Isaac admits. “I maybe – kissed him?”

Allison cocks her head at him. “What, just like that?”

Isaac cringes. “Yeah, I just – we were going over reports and I –” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It was stupid. I didn’t even ask if he was interested, I just assumed that he was.”

“It’s okay,” Allison says softly, reaching over to curl her hand around his.

Isaac shakes his head. “It’s really not. He totally freaked out. I’ve never seen anyone run away that fast.”

“What, not even Daehler?”

It forces a laugh from him. “Maybe not.” He forces himself to look at her. “He said he’s not like that. Said he’s straight.”

Allison raises an eyebrow. “He’s from the 1940s,” she points out. “He’s probably never kissed a guy. He’s probably never kissed a girl.”

“I doubt that.” He’s seen the files on Scott and Agent Yukimura; there was definitely something going on there. “It doesn’t matter though; he said he’s not interested.”

Allison frowns at him. “Oh, he’s definitely interested.”

Isaac shakes his head. “Look, he said he’s not.”

Allison leans forward so that he has to look at her, and when he does her eyes are soft and kind. “Sweetie,” she says gently, “Even I’ve seen how he looks at you. And you know things have to be about as subtle as a brick for me to notice.”

Isaac does; it took him kissing her in the middle of an op for her to notice that he was as into her as she was him. But, still: “I’m not going to push it. He said no. That’s that.”

Allison opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, but Isaac gives her his most pathetic look and she flops back down into her chair. “Fine,” she says, “That’s that.”

Her tone makes it sound like she agrees with him, but her eyes make Isaac’s pulse pick up: they’re glinting like she’s coming up with a plan.

 

-

 

Allison Argent is not what Scott expected. He heard the rumours at the water cooler, the gossip whispered over lunch tables and behind hands.

One rumour says she was once in the circus, a trained acrobat; another that she was a mercenary before SHIELD picked her up, with a list of kills the length of his arm. Some say she can shoot an apple off the top of a man’s head at a thousand yards. She apparently is violent and dangerous; or a smooth talker; or the world’s biggest asshole. She supposedly talks to her bow and can out lift more than the strongest trained agent and seduced her handler on a whim.

Scott finds out all of this before he ever sets sights on her, so by the time he actually meets her in the conference room one day, he has a picture in his head of what she’s like. Needless to say, she’s not what he expects.

“This is Agent Argent,” Deaton says, waving a hand to indicate the woman standing to the side of the room.

Scott looks over, takes her in. She’s tall, dressed in the standard black of the SHIELD uniform, muscles showing under the tight lines of the fabric. Her hair is loose around her face, delicate curls that highlight the sharpness of her eyes, the brightness of her smile.

She reaches out a hand for him to shake, says, “Not sure I see what all the fuss is about,” and grins when he crushes her hand in his tightest grip. 

“Stop flirting with the boy, Allison,” Lydia says coolly, sliding a folder across the table, and her lips twitch as Scott feels his face burst into flames.

Deaton sends the two of them to some South American jungle; a godforsaken country, Lydia says as she waves them off. It’s hot and humid, and Scott realises very quickly that Agent Argent is everything she’s said to be, and Scott finds he doesn’t like any of it.

“I fucking hate the jungle,” she complains as she stabs the snake crawling past them with an arrow.

“Will you stop it?” Scott hisses at her, trying to spot their target through the scope of his rifle.

“No,” Argent retorts. “Do you actually like it here? More than the city? More than home?”

She wriggles a little, sending up a spray of dust and leaves. Scott glares. “Shut up,” he tries. “You’re going to show them where they are.”

Argent rolls over, a sinuous line of black in the corner of Scott’s eye. “If they can tell where we are we’ve got bigger things to worry about.” She grabs at the rifle, drags it over to stare down the sight herself. Scott clenches his hands so as not to pull it back. “They haven’t seen us. You’re such a worrier.”

“Better a worrier than dead,” Scott counters and Argent sticks her middle finger up at him.

They make it out of there four days later, covered in sweat and mosquito bites. Lydia meets them in the hangar as they step off the jet together, Scott trying his hardest not to shove past Argent like a child.

“How did it go?” she asks, schooling her face into an innocent impression.

“Fantastic,” Argent drawls. “Captain Goody-Two-Shoes wouldn’t let me shoot anyone and the humidity fucked up my hair.”

Scott makes a noise like a snarl and stomps away to the door. Sadly it’s not heavy enough to slam on his way out.

 

-

 

“I think he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Isaac says, reaching over to gently pat Allison’s hand. “He just hasn’t go to know you yet.”

Allison thunks her head down onto the desk. “He hates me,” she moans. “I was such an asshole, but I couldn’t stop myself.” Isaac doesn’t say anything and when she glances up his face is a mix of fond and amused. “Don’t give me that look,” she hisses at him; “It’s not funny. I couldn’t have messed it up any more.”

“Give it some time,” Isaac says sagely. “He’ll come around. You just need to show him that you’re not always so, uh, abrasive.”

Allison snorts. “That’s one word for it.” She blinks at him, suddenly thoughtful. “I hope I didn’t screw it up for you. That would suck.”

Isaac laughs gently and squeezes her hand. “Look at this way,” he says: “At least now he might sleep with me just to spite you.”

Allison drops her head back down with a groan.

 

-

 

“So we didn’t get off on the best foot,” Argent says the next time they’re in a room together: Isaac’s office, the man himself no doubt on the other side of the door listening to their conversation.

“No,” Scott says harshly, barely glancing up from his paperwork.

“I’d like to start over,” Argent tries. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott sees her sink down onto the chair opposite and lean forwards, hands spread beseechingly. “I was reminded that I can be a bit _abrasive_.”

“No shit,” Scott mutters, and then glances up when Argent chuckles. “What?”

She shrugs at him. “I never thought I’d hear Captain America swear.”

Scott frowns. “I’m not as innocent as everyone seems to think,” he tells her. “I was in the army. I know words you’ve probably never even heard of.”

“That’s because you’re old,” Argent retorts, then claps her hand over her mouth suddenly. “And there I go again, being a bitch. I’m sorry, by the way – for Suriname.”

“Don’t worry about,” Scott says, but his tone is cold.

He looks back down at his papers, but Argent’s hand on his stops him. Her touch is soft and warm, her skin pale and fragile against his.

“I’m not a horrible person,” she says quietly. “I just have an attitude, and sometimes I forget that not everyone can handle it.”

Scott glances up at her and is caught by her eyes: the vulnerability there, and shock too, as if she’s surprised to even be saying it aloud. Her hand flinches away a little, but Scott flips his hand and grabs hers before she can take it back.

“Okay,” he says and smiles at the surprise on her face. “But if you call my Goody-Two-Shoes one more time, I’ll throw you out the window. Got it?”

Argent smiles, bright and wide, and she squeezes his hand tightly. It makes Scott’s heart quicken unexpectedly, something coming to life in his chest that he doesn’t know how to deal with, other than to clutch her hand back.

 

-

 

There’s a Norse goddess and a Russian assassin sitting in the canteen playing poker. There’s no one in a three table radius and what might be scorch marks on the ceiling. Even from this distance, Isaac can see Stilinski’s shit-eating grin and the way Erica is frowning at her cards like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

Isaac sighs. He doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he walks over, and Erica’s head jerks up with a smile.

“Brother Isaac,” she calls to him, “Will you join me in crushing Brother Stiles? This game is most confounding.”

“Are you really teaching her poker?” he asks Stilinski.

Stilinski grins like the cat that got the cream. “Don’t sound so disapproving, boss. We’re having fun.” He holds up a finger, pauses: “Oh wait, I forgot; you’re the fun police.”

“I liked you better when you were someone else,” Isaac says just to watch the smile drop from his face. “Have you seen Allison or Scott?”

“Scott’s working out,” Stilinski tells him with a glare. “Don’t know where your girlfriend is.”

“The Captain has excellent strength and skill,” Erica announces, throwing her cards down on the table. “Perhaps he will help me in this game.”

“Why don’t you try Lydia?” Isaac suggests, and Stilinski’s scowl deepens. “She’ll be able to help you beat him.”

“An excellent plan,” Erica agrees loudly. “Come, Stiles, we shall find Miss Martin.”

Stilinski’s glare could cut glass. “Thanks, asshole,” he hisses as Erica wraps a hand around his wrist and drags him to his feet. “I hope Scott drops a weight on your head.”

 Isaac gives him the finger as Erica pulls him away, then heads to the gym. SHIELD is quiet at this time in the evening, those agents with lives heading home to be with their friends and families. Isaac tries not to think about what that says about him.

When he gets to the gym and pushes open the door, the stink of stale sweat hits him hard. It seems quiet, but there’s a faint sound somewhere from its depth: someone straining, someone else laughing. Isaac follows the noise and when he turn’s the corner, Scott’s there, bench pressing Allison, holding her above his head like it’s no big deal. His arms bunch as he lifts Allison who’s giggling, her face bright and open, and Isaac feels his breath catch at the sight of them together.

He clears his throat and Allison glances over with a smile. “Isaac,” she calls, and Scott’s arms falter.

“I need to brief you,” Isaac calls to them and Scott carefully sets Allison down.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing himself upright; “What’s going on?”

“You’re going to Paris,” Isaac tells him.

Scott frowns, surprised. “Me?”

“Both of you.”

“Ooh, city of love,” Allison says, and winks at Scott. Isaac pretends not to notice his flush. “How romantic.”

“Yes,” Isaac says awkwardly; “Something like that.”

 

-

 

When Isaac said they were going to Paris, what he didn’t mention was that they were going undercover. As a couple; as _lovers_. Allison’s never felt more awkward in her life.

“It’s fine,” Scott tells her as his hand slides around her hips, a heavy weight along her skin. “I don’t mind.”

“Always the professional,” Allison says, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.

Their target walks past: thirty eight, brown hair, blue eyes, head of the largest drug smuggling ring in Europe. He doesn’t even spare them a second glance. Allison tracks him along the street, through the crowds of tourists taking pictures along the banks of the Seine, and down into the metro.

“Don’t lose him,” Isaac says in their ears.

“Shut up,” Allison tells him, and drags Scott after the man.

They stumble down the road, looking like all the world like a happy couple. Allison slots her hand into Scott’s and uses it to guide him between the tourists, dodging their cameras and flailing arms, down into the gloomy depths of the metro. Underground it’s hot and humid, especially when Allison presses closer to Scott so she doesn’t lose him in the crowds moving past them. On the platform they pause, leaning against a pillar with a clear sightline to their target, and Scott shuffles his feet awkwardly.

“He’s looking at us,” he says, eyes flicking between Allison and the man.

Allison rolls her eyes, tugs at the brim of Scott’s baseball cap. “He’s not.”

Scott shakes his head nervously. “He’s going to make us,” he whispers and Allison sighs.

She says, “Hey,” slips her hand around the back of his neck; says, “Don’t freak out,” and kisses him.

Scott tenses for a second, before he remembers what they’re playing at and relaxes into it. His lips part, smiling against her mouth, and he sweeps his tongue in. It makes Allison gasp in surprise and press closer, body curving up towards him. Scott’s hand comes up to rest at her back, pushing them together so that Allison can feel the way his jeans rub against the inside of her thighs. She moans softly and Scott huffs out a laugh, licking into her mouth again, and who would have thought Captain America knew how to kiss like that?

There’s a noise in their ears: Isaac clearing his throat awkwardly, and Scott pulls back slowly, a blush rushing across his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Allison looks up at him: pupils blown so wide only a thin line of iris is visible; lips parted, wet; she wants to kiss him again.

“He’s about to get on the train,” Isaac says in her ear, voice heated, but in what way she can’t tell.

 “We’ve got him,” Allison says, and from the way Scott’s eyes darken, her voice is as rough as she thinks.

“Then go do your job,” Isaac says bluntly, and she barely holds in a flinch at the quiet anger in his tone.

She thinks about it later, when they’ve got their drug smuggler in custody and a ton of cocaine to boot. Scott’s busy cleaning his weapons, so Allison sidles up to Isaac where he’s prepping the jet for takeoff.

“Are you mad?” she asks quietly, reaching past him to turn the last few dials.

“No,” he says, but his voice is clipped and his eyes are hard at he glances over at her.

Allison puts a hand on his jaw, turns his head towards her. “Isaac,” she says seriously, “It was just for the mission.”

He sighs loudly. “I know.”

“What – are you jealous?”

Isaac jerks his head out of her grip. “No,” he says miserably, and Allison rolls her eyes.

“Stop being an asshole.” She puts herself in front of him, right up in his space so he has no choice but to look at her. What she sees in his eyes: the confusion, the anger, the desire, makes her soften. “You _are_ jealous. Of me or him?”

“Neither,” Isaac says petulantly, and Allison is reminded of a child. It makes her smile, and she leans in to kiss him.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She jerks her head at Scott, who’s watching them out of the corner of his eye. “And neither is he.”

 

-

 

Scott has a list of things that he keeps meaning to investigate. Thai food. Star Wars. Michael Jackson. But there’s one thing that’s not on the list though, one thing that he searches in secret when he’s alone in his room at night.

It takes him a while to figure out what the word means though, to him. Google can only tell him so much, and even then it’s not always helpful. Scott discovers that prejudice is still as big a thing as it was back in the day.

Eventually though, he gets it. Rolls it around in his mouth a few times to try it out. Stiles catches him at it, laughs at him mumbling to himself.

“What _are_ you doing?” he asks.

“I’m bisexual,” Scott says, and Stiles smiles.

“I know,” he says.

Scott frowns. “What do you mean you know?”

Stiles just laughs at him. “Scott,” he says, laying a gentle hand on his arm, “I’ve known for years. It’s not like you’re very good at hiding it.”

Scott doesn’t really know what to say. “You don’t care?” he asks carefully.

Stiles pats him gently on the arm. “Scott, we’re both ninety years old. I have a metal arm. Aliens exist. In the grand scheme of things, the fact that you like guys _and_ girls is hardly a big deal.”

“Really?”

“Buddy,” Stiles says, squeezing his shoulder, “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Something settles in Scott’s chest, the shame and guilt he’s carried for so long finally starting to dissipate. “Thanks, man,” he says quietly. “That means a lot.”

Stiles grins, as bright as Scott remembers. “You want to tell me what brought this on?” he asks.

“Nothing, I just –”

Stiles nudges him. “Don’t lie to me, man. You know I’m here for you.”

“Isaac kissed me,” Scott admits. “And then Allison kissed me. And I liked them both. A lot.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “You liked kissing both a guy and a girl, or you liked kissing Isaac and Allison?”

Scott frowns at him. “Is there a difference?”

“Was it just about kissing them?” Stiles asks. “Getting a feel for it? Or are you interested in being with them?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scott tells him. “They’re together. I’m not going to break up their relationship.”

Stiles sighs exasperatedly, but the look on his face is fond. “While you were figuring out yourself, did you look at anything else? Like, threesomes?”

Scott flushes. It’s something he came across – and liked, a lot. He glances away, embarrassed; Stiles just rolls his eyes at him.

“Maybe you should talk to them,” he suggests. “You never know, they might surprise you.”

Scott scoffs, but when he looks up Stiles is staring at him earnestly, eyes dark and serious, and Scott can’t help the way hope flares in his chest at the words.


	2. Chapter 2

Allison disappears between one Monday and the next; Arizona, if Lydia’s information is right.

“She’s on babysitting duty,” she tells him while they’re on a jet somewhere over the pacific, “Looking after Erica’s favourite scientists.”

And that’s all Scott knows until three weeks later Isaac walks into their briefing room, ashen-faced, a desperate look in his eyes.

“Agent Argent has been compromised,” he says, and Scott feels his stomach drop to his knees. Next to him, Lydia’s face drains of colour.

“How bad?” she asks, barely more than a whisper.

Isaac just shakes his head. “She’s gone,” he says, and his voice cracks over the words.

Lydia takes a careful step forward. “Is she alive?” she asks, and places a hand on Isaac’s arm.

He nods slowly. “We think so.”

Scott steps up, takes the folders from his hands. “We’ll find her,” he says, and Isaac shoots him a grateful look. “Show me what you’ve got.”

 

-

 

“Her name is Malia,” Erica says. “My sister, the trickster.”

Scott watches her face: the sorrow, the anger, and feels it echoed in himself. Across the table, Lydia and Isaac look much the same. Scott glances around at the rest of them: Derek Hale, nothing like Scott remembers his grandfather being; Deaton, glaring balefully at them all with his lone eye; and Stiles, chair dragged as close to Scott as he can get without being on top of him.

“What does she want?” Deaton asks, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“She has an army,” Erica tells them. “The Chitauri. I expect she will attempt to use them to takeover the world.”

Stiles makes a noise like a laugh. “Really? ‘Takeover the world’? What is this, Independence Day?”

Deaton gives him a sharp look. “I don’t imagine you’ll be laughing, Agent Stilinski, when there’s a Chitauri soldier with a gun to your head.”

Stiles grumbles under his breath; across the table, Lydia rolls her eyes. “What does she need Allison for?” she asks.

“She’s building another portal to let the Chitauri through,” Hale pipes up. “He’s using Argent to get the raw materials, and your scientist – what’s his name? Finstock? – to do the math. When he gets everything together, he’ll be able to stabilise the quantum tunnel effect. And then he’ll be able to create heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet. “

Stiles’ eyebrows tick upwards. “Any idea what’s he talking about?” he stage-whispers to Scott.

“Thermonuclear astrophysics,” a voice to the side says.

When Scott turns, there’s a guy standing there. Big, black, in a purple button-down and a pair of tiny glasses. He smiles uncomfortably at them, hands coming up to smooth down the front his shirt.

“Dr Boyd,” Hale announces, sounds almost ecstatic. “So nice to finally meet someone who speaks my language. Will Mr Hyde be joining us on this trip?”

Boyd flinches a little. “I’m just here to find the cube.”

“Sure,” Hale says, and turns back to the table. “And what about the rest of you? Going to be joining in the fun?”

“You know, you’re a little too cheerful,” Stiles points out and Hale’s gaze flits over him coolly.

“Just interested,” he says. “It’s not every day we have a get together like this.”

“As much as I’m enjoying your banter,” Lydia drawls, “I think we need to focus on the problem at hand. How do we find her? How do we stop her?”

“I don’t think it’ll be too hard,” Boyd says from the window.

Every head turns to look at him, eyes squinted in the face of the blinding light seeping in through the glass. Outside, New York is starting to explode.

 

-

 

Isaac’s halfway down Park Ave when he sees it, the flash of dark hair disappearing down an alleyway. He stops in his tracks, head whipping round in search of what he thinks he saw.

“Problem, Lahey?” Derek asks, voice tinny through the comms as he circles above him, taking out stray Chitauri when they get too close.

“It’s fine,” Isaac tells him. “Keep going. I need to check something.”

Derek waves a hand and shoots off into the distance. Isaac turns away from the street, picking his way between burnt out cars until he can peer down the alley. There’s nothing there: a few dumpsters, debris blowing in the wind.

Isaac ducks down the passage, taking a few cautious steps. “Allison?” he calls out. “Allison, are you there?”

There’s no answer other than the faint sound of an explosion somewhere in the distance. Isaac sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. _You’re seeing ghosts_ , he thinks sadly, and turns to leave.

“Agent Lahey,” a voice says.

Isaac turns back and stops short. There’s a girl standing there; long brown hair, bright eyes, a smirk twisting her mouth. She has a sceptre in her hand, the tip of it glowing blue. Isaac knows her face from the photos strewn across the briefing table.

“Malia,” he says, hand going to the gun on his hip. “I didn’t think you were keen on hanging out with us mortals.”

Malia tilts her head at him with a smile. “That’s not what I’m doing,” she says and flashes forward, slides her sceptre into Isaac’s guts.

His world explodes in a burst of white-hot agony. It feels like he’s on fire from the inside out, the pain lancing through his gut and along his veins. He grasps at where the blade is in him, writhing on it, trying to pull it out. Malia just laughs.

“Relax, Isaac,” she says, voice sharp and cruel. When he looks up her eyes are bluer than the sky, and her smile is blinding white.

Isaac jerks back, and the sceptre slides out with a sickening pop. He goes down, sprawled on the ground like his strings have been cut, one hand closing over the bloody hole in his stomach. The other scrabbles for his holster.

“Where’s Allison?” he asks, and Malia laughs again.

“Oh, Allison,” she mocks, “Poor little Allison. You know, when this is all over, I’m going to enjoy seeing her face when she finds out about all of this. I’m going to let her up long enough to tell her what I’ve done, and when she screams I’m going to split her skull.”

Isaac snarls. “You’re going to lose,” he tells her. “They’re going to stop you.”

“You’re dying, Isaac,” she says, face shifting into something that could almost be described as soft. “That’s not something you need to worry about any more.”

Isaac gets his gun out and up, unloads two rounds into Malia’s chest before she screams and slams her boot into his stomach. Pain explodes again, and Isaac blacks out to the ruthless smirk on Malia’s face and the knowledge that he’s never going to see Allison again.

 

-

 

Allison wakes up slowly. Everything is cold, like she’s wrapped in ice. Someone looms over her: Lydia, staring at her with a concerned expression, face tinted blue like everything else in Allison’s vision.

“Stay still,” she says. “Don’t struggle.”

Allison looks down; her wrists are in shackles, thickset and heavy. “Don’t think I could if I wanted to.”

The corner of Lydia’s mouth twitches. “You’re going to be okay.”

Allison has to look away suddenly, guilt washing over her. “I might be the only one,” she chokes out. “God, Lydia, how many agents did I –”

Lydia drops onto the bed suddenly, leaning forward into her space. “Don’t do that to yourself, Ally. This is Malia. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.”

Allison sighs. “Did Malia get away?” she asks quietly, twisting her wrists in the restraints. “Did you stop her?”

“Not yet,” Lydia tells her. “But we will.” Allison drops her head back onto the pillow with a thud and Lydia sighs. “Relax. It’s going to take some time.”

“I just – have you ever had someone take your brain and play?” Allison asks. “Pull you out and stuff something else in?”

Lydia’s expression shutters and Allison shrinks back. Of course Lydia does; the Red Room has left its scars.

“How did you get her out?” she asks to cover Lydia’s silence.

Lydia’s face morphs into a familiar smirk. “I hit you really hard in the head,” she says smugly, and Allison laughs despite herself.

“Well, thanks for that.” She waves her hands at Lydia. “Think you can let me out then?”

Lydia does, and Allison rubs at where her wrists are red and raw. “We’ve got to stop her,” she says, reaching over to get Allison a glass of water.

“Who’s we?”

Lydia shrugs. “Whoever’s left.”

“Is there anyone left?” Lydia’s face goes suddenly blank in a way Allison hasn’t seen before. “Lydia, what is it?”

Lydia stares at her, mouth opening and closing; Allison’s never seen her at a loss for words and it makes her feel unsettled, unsure. Then Lydia reaches out to lay her hand gently over Allison’s, and squeezes tight.

“It’s Isaac,” she says, and her voice is shaky around the edges. “Allison, there’s something I have to tell you.”

 

-

 

When Scott sees Allison again, he expects her to be in pieces. Even he feels like there’s something squeezing his heart, but she just nods in acknowledgement and stands silently next to him while Deaton reads her in on their next plan of attack.

Scott nudges her gently. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

Allison doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead. Scott looks away, zoning out to the sound of Deaton’s voice until the meeting’s over and everyone’s scattering to try and contain the carnage going on outside. When he looks around, he’s alone in the room, except for Allison’s who’s standing by the window staring vacantly out at the city.

“Allison,” he calls, and she turns slowly. The look in her eyes is cold and hard. “How are you feeling?”

She surveys him distantly, like she’s not really seeing him. “I’ll feel a lot better once I put an arrow through Malia’s eye socket,” she says, and her voice is so flat it makes Scott shiver.

He takes a step closer. “If you need to talk,” he offers. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

Allison blinks at him; “Okay,” she says, and looks back out the window.

Where Scott is expecting anger, there is only a void. _Who are you?_ he thinks, and sighs, finally closes the distance between them. He places a gentle hand on her arm and she jerks away like she’s burnt.

“Please,” he says then, almost pleadingly. “Allison, don’t push me away.”

She turns to look at him, and Scott can see it there, hidden in the depths: her pain, her sorrow, the way it’s eating at her inside, before she locks it down again and her face smoothes into something blank.

“I’m fine, Captain.” She glances over his shoulder, then steps out his reach. “They’re waiting for us. Time to go.”

She walks away, footsteps echoing in the room, and Scott watches her go. She brushes past Stiles hovering in the doorway without a second glance, head held high, and Stiles shoots him a confused look.

“What was that all about?” he asks, stepping in to throw Scott’s sidearm to him. “She starting to crack?”

Scott laughs harshly. “Aren’t we all?”

Stiles frowns at him, but in the end he just cracks his next, rolls his shoulder with a loud click. “C’mon,” he says, throwing his arm over Scott’s shoulders, “Let’s go kill this bitch already.”

Scott lets him lead him out, but his mind is still stuck on Allison at the window, face highlighted in the orange glow of the burning city, a dark and desperate look in her eyes. All he can think about is how he never wants to see her look like that again.

 

-

 

After it’s all over – after Erica puts Malia in chains and drags her back to their home world, after they sit around in a half-destroyed shawarma shop and stuff their faces, after they’re forced to sit through an extended debrief despite the fact that none of them can keep their eyes open – after all is said and done, Allison barely makes it to her bathroom before she brings up everything in her stomach.

It takes a long time for her to be done, and when she has it takes even longer to get her feet under herself and clamber upright. She leans heavily on the sink, stares at herself blankly in the mirror.

She looks like a mess. Her hair’s a bird’s nest; she has a bloody lip to match the gigantic bruise and hell of a concussion from Lydia’s attempt at saving her. Her hands are bloody and raw, burns on her knuckles to match the patch of singed skin snaking up her arm.

What she realises watching herself in the glass is that none of it hurts as bad as the gaping hole in her chest where Isaac used to be.

It doesn’t help that Isaac’s toothbrush is on the sink, that there’s a bottle of his cologne on the shelf next to her deodorant. Her heart aches viciously at the sight of them sitting there like nothing’s wrong, like the entire day hasn’t happened.

She has to turn to the toilet to puke again.

There’s a soft knock at the door of her suite, gentle like someone’s trying to be considerate. Lydia probably, being a better friend than Allison expected her to be.

“Fuck off,” she yells from the bathroom. The door opens anyway, and she thunks her head against the wall exasperatedly. “I said fuck off, Lydia,” she shouts again; “I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s not Lydia,” Scott calls, and Allison straightens from her slump.

“What do you want, Cap?” she calls to him, reaching up to try and tame her hair a little.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he calls back, and Allison sighs.

When she steps out into the room, she fully expects to see Deaton with another mission for her, or maybe Hale with a bottle of whiskey for her pain. But what she gets is Scott, leaning against the wall by the door, an uncertain look on his face, and Isaac, standing in the middle of their bedroom, real and very much alive.

Allison stares at him, opens her mouth and closes it again. She blinks hard: once, twice, a third time, but Isaac’s still there when she’s done. He smiles, soft and hesitant, and Allison feels like she’s been punched in the gut.

“How?” she stutters out, and Isaac takes a careful step towards her.

“The doctors brought me back,” he says, taking another step so that he’s close enough to reach out and touch. “Deaton didn’t want to tell you until it was over.”

Allison stares at him, then reaches out to touch him, to make sure he’s real. “They said you were dead,” she says, and her voice is shaky. Her hand where it brushes across his chest is trembling. “You weren’t there and I – they wouldn’t let me see your body. I didn’t know – I –”

Isaac reaches up to trap her hand against his chest. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry.”

Allison’s laugh cracks in the middle, tears flooding down her face, and she steps forward to bury her face in his chest. Isaac’s arms come up to slide around her, warm and comforting and alive, so very alive.

“I love you,” she whispers into his shirt. “I love you so much. Don’t ever do that again. Please – please, Isaac – I can’t –”

Isaac shushes her, hand cupping the back of her neck. “I love you too,” he says in her ear. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither of them notice Scott slipping out the room with a sad smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

 

-

 

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Stiles asks one evening when Scott’s practicing his drawing and Stiles is pretending to model, but is really just eating all of Scott’s pretzels and drinking his Gatorade.

“What?” Scott asks, looking up from his pad.

“You’re in love with Allison,” Stiles repeats, not a question this time, and Scott’s pencil stutters on the page.

“I’m – I’m not in love with Allison,” he tells him, trying for cool and missing by a mile.

Stiles snorts. “You are,” he says. “But it’s cool.”

“It’s not cool. It’s – I’m _not_ , okay? I’m not.” Scott screws up his picture, throws it at Stiles’ head. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Just putting it out there,” Stiles says. He smoothes the paper out and looks at the outline of his face there: “Hmm, not your best work.” Then, casually, “You’re in love with Isaac too, aren’t you?

Scott snaps his pencil in two. “ _Jesus_ , Stiles, where are you getting this from?”

“It’s just an observation,” Stiles tells him. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Scotty. Even Lydia asked me about it, and we don’t talk any more.”

Scott watches Stiles’ face, spots the forced nonchalance there, and decides to ignore it. If Stiles doesn’t want to talk about Lydia, he’s not going to push. But it does get him out of this extremely awkward conversation.

“If Lydia’s speaking to you again that must be a good sign,” he tries.

Stiles laughs. “Nice try,” he says, and tosses the drawing into the trash. “Seriously though, how long have you been in love with them? I swear you weren’t this bad before.”

“I’m not –” Scott sighs and decides to give it up. “The whole thing with Malia and the mind control and Isaac dying, I guess it just brought home how much they mean to me.” When he looks over, Stiles is trying to hold back a smile. “I know, I know – you think I should tell them.”

“Well I keep saying it,” Stiles reminds him, “But you don’t seem to be listening. They must have shrunk your brain when they made the rest of you bigger.”

Scott throws the entire notepad at him and his stupidly, smug grin.

 

-

 

It’s a Wednesday, the only day the two of them have off because even the bad guys hate hump day, and Allison has Isaac shirtless on her couch at three in the afternoon, half asleep in the sunshine trickling through the window, skin warm beneath her head as she curls herself around him. Across the room, the TV drones on, some cooking show that Allison is staring at blankly while she listens to the steady thump of Isaac’s heart.

As the clock hits three her phone suddenly starts beeping, and Allison lifts her head to look at it. When she sees the screen, tension shoots through her: it’s her security system, someone at the perimeter, in the corridor according to the message flashing there.

She sits up a little; watching, waiting. Beneath her Isaac just breathes slowly, but the alarm switches off abruptly. Allison tilts her head, listening as carefully as she can, but there’s nothing, as if whatever is out there has stopped moving.

She nudges Isaac a little. “There’s someone in the corridor,” she says quietly.

“It’s probably your neighbour,” Isaac mumbles sleepily. He leans in a little to nose at her hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Allison shakes her head. “He wouldn’t have to come down here,” she points out. “His door’s at the other end.”

“He’s bringing you your mail,” Isaac whispers, arms tightening as if he can feel the way she’s shifting to get up.

“I don’t get mail here,” Allison reminds him and tries to wriggle out of his grip. “Isaac, it could be a threat. I need to check.”

“Don’t,” Isaac whines, grabbing at her; “Stay here.”

“You’re such a pain,” Allison says, but she leans in to kiss him until he loosens his hold on her.

The hallway to the door is dark, barely lit by the sunshine trying to creep around the corner from the living room. But Allison knows where her gun is: top drawer of the cabinet; she finds it easily in the darkness. As she clicks back the safety, there’s a faint noise outside: feet rustling on carpet, a quiet exhale. When she opens the door Stiles is standing there, fist raised as if to knock.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she replies.

“Who is it?” Isaac calls out from the depths of her apartment.

Stiles’ face stretches into a Cheshire-cat grin at the sight of her and the gun in her hand, and Allison eyes him suspiciously. She hasn’t had many interactions with him since Scott brought him in: manic, half wild. She’s man enough to admit that she’s been avoiding him, but she still remembers the time he blew up her apartment in Volgograd, even if he doesn’t.

“Can I help you?” she asks carefully.

Stiles just keeps smiling. “Mind if I come in?” he says, trying to peer round her.

Allison shifts, blocking him just in case: “I’m a little busy. Maybe another time.”

“ _Allison_ ,” Isaac shouts, “If it’s your neighbour tell him to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his grin turning smug, “I can tell.”

Allison can feel the way her way clenches, teeth grinding together hard. “Are you even allowed off base?” she asks coolly. “I thought they were keeping you under lock and key.”

“There aren’t many locks I can’t break,” he says, and flexes his metal arm like she’s supposed to be impressed.

“Cute,” she says back, flexing her own where she’s leaning on the doorframe.

Stiles’ eyebrow inches a little. “We should arm wrestle some time. You might give me a run for my money. I’d do it with Scott, but he’s no fun these days.”

Allison can feel the heat rushing across her face at the mention of Scott and glances away, embarrassed. Her mind immediately supplies memories of Paris, warm hands sliding under her shirt, Scott’s voice low in her ear; but alongside that, a dream or two: the bright flash of Isaac’s smile, blonde hair next to dark, two mouths skating across her skin. When she looks up again, Stiles is looking at her, amused and smug.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, and Allison tries not to tense at the knowing look in his eyes.

It’s then that a voice calls out, “Stilinski,” and Stiles’ eyes flick to somewhere behind her. Allison doesn’t turn, just keeps watching him.

“Hey, boss,” Stiles says, voice casual. “Fancy seeing you here?”

Allison feels Isaac step into her space, a sudden shift of air at her back, then he’s pressing up against her. Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up into his hair and it’s only then that Allison remembers how very few clothes Isaac is wearing.

“What are you doing here?” Isaac asks, and his tone is colder than Allison has heard in a long time.

Stiles just smiles. “I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d stop by.” He shifts a little; she could mistake it for nervous shuffling if she didn’t know how good a liar he is. “Your girlfriend isn’t much of a host though.”

“She already has company,” Isaac tells him, and his hand curls tightly around Allison’s hip, protective, warm through the thin fabric of her dress. “What do you want?”

“Well,” Stiles drawls, “I was just hanging out with my buddy Scott.”

“Did he know you were off base without permission?” Isaac asks curtly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s beside the point.” He frowns at them. “I was with him, and he told me some things about you – about both of you. And I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re all idiots.”

“Thank you,” Isaac says dryly.

“No, really. You’re all in love with each other –” and Isaac makes a choking noise, “– But apparently none of you know how to talk about your _feelings_. So I’m going to do it for you.”

There’s a long pause. Allison’s heart is pounding in her chest, triple time, tangoing against her ribs; her face is on fire, Isaac’s hand spasming around her hip.

“Are you drunk?” she asks into the silence.

“Not even a little.” Stiles points at them. “I don’t know why he likes you – God knows it’s not because of your winning personalities – but he does. And you keep kissing him and it’s messing with his head because he thinks it’s just for the mission, or whatever.”

“It’s not,” Isaac says quietly, and Stiles’ lips twitch victoriously.

“That’s what I said.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “So either you tell him you’re interested, or you leave him alone.”

“I can’t,” Allison admits. “I can’t leave him alone – Stiles, that’s not what we want.”

Stiles nods and smiles a little, apparently satisfied, before his face shifts into something menacing. “But if you hurt him, I’ll kill you. We all know that’s not an empty threat,” and he bares his teeth at them, a reminder of the animal hiding behind that human skin.

“We won’t,” Isaac promises. “Never. He’s too important.”

“Good,” Stiles says: “I’m glad that’s settled. Enjoy your evening,” and he walks away with a lazy salute.

“Don’t worry,” Allison calls out as he reaches the stairs, “I won’t tell anyone you have a heart.”

Stiles flips her the bird before he vanishes from sight.

 

-

 

Derek takes them to a club, some glitzy place downtown to celebrate surviving the month, and Scott watches Isaac spin Allison in circles around the dance floor. He has to turn away from the smile on her face – or maybe on Isaac’s; it’s hard to tell these days who makes his heart hurt more.

He turns away and goes to the bar instead, shouldering his way between Lydia and the guy who’s hitting on her. He orders a whiskey for him and a martini for her.

“I don’t normally play to stereotypes,” she says, and Scott frowns at her. She just rolls her eyes. “Really, Scott? Add James Bond to your list.”

He does, right under dubstep and Casablanca. Lydia laughs over his shoulder when she sees it and steals his pen to add the Golden Girls and vibrators. Scott would object but then Allison’s laugh echoes above the music and he has to take a swig of his drink.

“You’re not having fun,” she says, eyeing him slyly. “Why did you bother coming?”

“Derek asked,” he tells her, and from the look on her face he obviously doesn’t sound as convincing as he means to be.

Lydia sighs at him. “You should talk to them,” she says, taking a sip from her drink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lydia levels him with a highly unimpressed look, the one that usually comes before she punches someone in the face. “I know I’m not the only one to say this to you, so don’t pretend like I am. You should listen to your best friend.”

Scott raises an eyebrow. “Since when are you and Stiles so chummy?” he asks, trying to distract her, to make her squirm.

It just makes Lydia shake her head. “This isn’t about me and Stiles,” she says haughtily. “Now, you can either make a move, or you can give up and go home. Just make your mind up already,” and she struts away to dance.

Scott lasts thirty minutes after that, watching Lydia doing some strange grinding with Allison and Erica. Derek sends a few drinks his way, and Stiles tries to make him dance, but he’s stone cold sober and miserable to in the end he calls it a night.

The ride back to base is silent, the taxi driver shooting him strange looks in the rear-view. _Yes_ , Scott wants to say, _I am Captain America and I’m in love with two people who don’t love me back_ , but he feels pathetic just thinking it so he keeps his mouth firmly closed.

SHIELD is deserted at this time of night, the corridors still and empty as Scott walks slowly to his room. The silence is almost deafening after the noise of the club. His room is as he left it: clean, tidy, bed made with sharp corners; and when he shrugs out of his shirt, steps out of his pants, he folds them neatly on the chair. He goes the bathroom, turns on the shower. When he steps in the water is hot, soothing, and Scott can feel the tension slowly leaving him under the rush.

He’s pulling his head out of the flow when there’s a faint noise, a click like a door opening, the soft padding of feet on carpet. Scott shuts the shower off and wraps a towel around his waist, the plush kind that Derek likes to send him. The air is chilly, goosebumps rippling along his arms, and the room smells faintly of an aftershave not his own.

He steps carefully into the bedroom and stops short. Allison and Isaac are perched on his bed, sitting close like lovers do.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice cracking a little at the sight of them together in his bedroom.

Allison stands in one graceful move. She’s still wearing the same dress from earlier, fabric fitted tight to the curves of her body, and Scott feels the blood rush to his face at the sight of her. “You left,” she says.

Scott shrugs. “I wasn’t really in the mood,” he tells her, and Allison smiles gently.

“You didn’t say goodbye. We were worried.”

Scott cringes. “You didn’t need to check on me.”

“Then maybe you should stop running away.” Allison’s tone is sharp and Scott steps back. Her expression softens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you’re avoiding us.”

“I’m not,” Scott tries. “I just wanted to get to bed.”

Allison snorts, loud in the still silence. “You’re not a very good liar,” she tells him.

“I’m not trying to be,” Scott growls at her. He clenches his fists, moves back towards the safety of the bathroom. “Maybe you should leave.”

Allison frowns at him. “That’s not –” She sighs and scrubs a hand over her face. She looks exhausted, Scott notices. “We didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Then why did you come here?” he asks, gaze flicking from her to Isaac, who smiles gently at him, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt almost nervously.

“Stiles mentioned something,” he says, “About you. About us.”

Scott flinches, mind running through all the things Stiles could have said. “You shouldn’t listen to him,” he insists. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Doesn’t he?” Allison asks, a small smile springing to life on her face. She reaches out to touch his arm, hand hot against his skin. “Scott, we’ve been trying to make this happen for a long time.”

“You’re drunk,” he tells her, stepping back out of her reach. “You don’t want this.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Allison snaps. “Every time I look at you I want to climb you like a tree. I want to watch you and Isaac make out. I want to see what you look like when you come.”

Scott stops, heart pounding in his chest; he stares at her, but there’s no lie in her eyes. Next to her, Isaac pushes to his feet, hand coming up to tangle with Allison’s.

“She’s right,” he says, voice whisper-soft. “Scott, we want this. We want you.”

It hits him then, like a weight, everything he’s been denying for so long. Allison’s teasing, Isaac’s flirting. The kisses and the touches and the smiles; the meaning behind them. It makes his breath catch and his pulse start to race.

“Are you sure?” he asks, surprised.

A grin breaks across Isaac’s face. “Always,” he says.

“I just –” Scott blinks at them, floundering a little. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Allison laughs then, and kisses him. It’s just like before, her mouth moving soft and sensual against his, his hand tight against the curve of her back. Scott can feel the way his body responds, blood pounding in his veins as his heart dances a rapid rhythm against his chest. A moan escapes him, hanging in the air, and a body presses up against his.

This time, Isaac doesn’t clear his throat. Instead he turns Scott sharply by the shoulder, breaking the kiss; Allison chases his lips, but Isaac simply wraps his hand around the back of his neck, blocking her way. He leans in slowly, carefully, to press his lips to Scott’s.

It’s rough, almost desperate, Isaac biting at his mouth until it’s red and raw. His hands stroke across Scott’s neck and shoulders, delicate and teasing, one snaking down to brush over his nipple. It makes his breath hitch, and Scott has to grab at his shirt to stay upright.

“It’s okay,” Allison whispers against his ear, breath tickling across his skin.

Scott gets his hands under Isaac’s shirt, rucking it up so he can see a flash of flesh underneath when he glances down. “Off,” he mumbles against his mouth, “Please – Isaac, take it off.”

Isaac smiles. He unbuckles his belt and slides it through the loops, a slow slither of leather through cloth. It drops to the ground with a thud and a clink, and Scott’s pulse picks up at the sound. Then Isaac drags the shirt over his head and suddenly there is an expanse of skin waiting for Scott’s hands to touch. He has to drop his head to Isaac’s shoulder with a groan, eyes on how his hands look on Isaac: bronze against all that pale.

Cool hands encircle his waist: Allison. She presses herself up against his back and drags her palms up along his hips, calluses dragging rough over his skin. They come to rest on the towel, and when Scott looks down her nail polish is stark against the white fabric.

“This okay?” she asks, lips brushing against his spine.

“Always,” Scott says, and let’s them tumble him down onto the bed.

 

-

 

“So,” Stiles drawls, eyes on Scott’s neck where he knows is a massive hickey in the shape of Isaac’s mouth, “It all worked out then.”

They’re in a diner, some place that’s been in the same spot since before either of them were born, and Scott can’t even bring himself to be irritated at the way Stiles speaks with his mouth full. He feels sex-stupid, a dopey grin on his face.

“No thanks to you,” he says, taking a bite of his burger.

Stiles snorts. “Whatever.” He slurps his drink loudly. “So what, is this going to be a thing now?”

Scott shrugs. The muscles in his shoulder twinge; it’s a good feeling. “I hope so,” he says. “You went to see them didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” Stiles’ lips curl upwards into a familiar sly smirk. “Does it matter? You got what you wanted, right?”

Scott wipes his mouth carefully, frowning. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”

“I know.” Stiles’ smile changes, morphs into something that seems genuinely pleased. Scott answers it with one of his own. “I’m happy for you,” he says; “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Scott chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much sex before.”

Stiles bursts out laughing, and the woman at the next table glances over, disgusted. Scott mouths an apology, but he’s not sorry, not when Stiles is cackling, writhing, close to falling off his chair as he shakes with laughter.

“Sorry,” he stutters out once he’s finally stopped, taking in big gulps of air, “Sometimes I forget you’re still a blushing virgin even though you look like that.”

Scott scowls at him, and throws a balled up napkin at his face. Stiles starts sniggering again. “You’re an asshole,” he mutters, shoving a fry into his mouth.

Stiles just grins at him, unrepentant, until Scott’s phone vibrates on the table. “Better get that,” he says.

Scott looks down at it: a text from Allison: _come home, we’re waiting_. And when he does, they are.

**Author's Note:**

> So my laptop crashed and deleted everything so I had to rewrite it from memory.


End file.
